-----
[Illustration: "A TROUBLED EXPRESSION ON HIS FACE."]
The Rev. Thomas Todd, curate of S. Athanasius, Great Wabbleton, sat at
the table in his little parlour with a local newspaper in his hand and a
troubled expression on his face. There was something incongruous in the
appearance of the deep frown that puckered the curate's brows; for his
countenance, in its normal aspect, was chubby and plump and bland, and
his little grey eyes were wont to shine with a benign and even a
humorous twinkle. He was not remarkably young, as curates go; but he was
quite young enough to be a subject of absorbing interest to the lady
members of the S. Athanasius congregation, and to find himself the
frequent recipient of those marks of feminine attention which are the
recognised perquisites of the junior assistant clergy.
Two or three times, the curate raised the paper from the table and
re-read the passage that was evidently troubling him; and each time he
did so the puckers deepened, and his expression became more and more
careworn. It would have been difficult enough for a stranger to find any
clue to the cause of his agitation in the portion of the _Wabbleton Post
and Grubley Advertiser_ which the clergyman held before him; and the
wonder would certainly have been increased by the discovery that the
passage to which the reverend gentleman's attention was directed was
nothing else than the following innocent little paragraph of news:--
"Grubley.--We are asked to state that Benotti's Original Circus,
one of the oldest established and most complete in the kingdom,
will give two performances daily at Bounders Green during the whole
of next week."
There seemed little enough in such an announcement to bring disquiet to
the curate's mind. Possibly, he cherished a conscientious objection to
circuses, and remembered that, as Grubley and Great Wabbleton were only
three miles apart, a section of the S. Athanasius flock might be allured
next week by the meretricious attraction at Bounders Green. Yet even
such solicitude for the welfare of the flock of which he was the
assistant shepherd seemed scarcely to account either for his obvious
distress, or for the fragments of soliloquy that escaped him at every
fresh study of the paper.
"Here, of all places in the world--absolute ruin--no, not on any
account!"
At length, throwing down the _Post_, the curate seized his hat, started
at a rapid pace for the Vicarage, and was soon seated _tete-a-tete_ with
his superior, an amiable old gentleman with a portly presence and an
abiding faith in his assistant's ability to do the whole work of the
parish unaided.
"Vicar, do you think you can spare me for the next week or so? The fact
is, I am feeling the want of a change badly, and should be glad of a few
days to run down to my people in Devonshire."
"My dear Todd, how unfortunate! I have just made arrangements to be away
myself next week--and--and the week following. I am going up to London
to stay with my old friend Canon Crozier. I was just coming to tell you
so when you called. If you don't mind waiting till I return, I've no
doubt we can manage to spare you for a day or two. Sorry you're not
feeling well. By-the-bye, has that tiresome woman Mrs. Dunderton been
worrying you? She came here yesterday about those candles, and
threatened to write to the Bishop and denounce us as Popish
conspirators. Couldn't you go and talk to her, and see if you can bring
her to a more reasonable frame of mind?"
The talk drifted to church and parish matters, and, as soon as he
decently could, the curate took his leave, looking very much more
depressed and anxious than ever. As he raised the latch of the Vicarage
gate, a voice, whose sound he knew only too well, called to him by name;
and, turning, he beheld Miss Caroline Cope, the Vicar's daughter,
pursuing him skittishly down the garden path. Miss Caroline was not
young, neither was she amiable, and her appearance was quite remarkably
unattractive. All this would have mattered little to the curate, but
for the fact that she had lately shown for him a marked partiality that
had inspired him with considerable uneasiness. At this moment, when his
mind was troubled with other matters, her unwelcome appearance aroused
in his breast a feeling of extreme irritation.
[Illustration: "DON'T RUN AWAY FROM ME."]
"Don't run away from me, you naughty, unfeeling man," she began, with an
elephantine attempt at archness. "I was going to ask you to take me down
to the schoolrooms, but I shall have to go alone if you fly away from me
like this."
Mr. Todd, fervently wishing that flying were just then among his
accomplishments, felt that now, while he was in the humour, was the
time to free himself, finally if possible, from these embarrassing
attentions.
"I am sorry I cannot give myself the pleasure of accompanying you, Miss
Cope. I have several sick persons and others to call upon in different
parts of the parish, and my duties will fully occupy the whole of my
morning. I'm afraid I don't happen to be going in the direction of the
schools, so I must say 'good morning' here."
And the curate raised his hat and passed on, fortifying himself with the
reflection that what might in an ordinary case have been rudeness was in
this instance the merest and most necessary self-defence.
[Illustration: "A VIPEROUS LOOK IN HER FACE."]
Miss Cope stood looking after his retreating figure with a viperous look
in her face, and with a feeling of intense rage, which she promised
herself to translate into action at the very earliest opportunity.
Early in the following week, the Vicar started for London, and his
curate was left in sole charge of the parish. That there was something
amiss with Mr. Todd was evident to all who came in contact with him,
both before and after the Vicar's departure. His former geniality seemed
to have quite deserted him, and he looked worried, anxious, and ill. The
ladies of S. Athanasius were greatly concerned at the change, and
speculated wildly as to its cause. There was one among them, however,
who made no comment upon the subject, and appeared, in fact, to ignore
the curate's existence altogether. Whatever might be the source of that
gentleman's troubles, he had, at any rate, freed himself from the
unwelcome advances of Miss Caroline Cope.
The third morning after the Vicar's departure, his assistant was sent
for to visit a sick parishioner who lived just outside Great Wabbleton,
on the high road to Grubley. The summons was an imperative one; but he
obeyed it with a curious and unwonted reluctance. As he reached the
outskirts of the town and struck into the Grubley road, his distaste
for his errand seemed to increase, and he looked uneasily from side to
side with a strange, furtive glance, in singular contrast to his usual
steady gaze and cheerful smile. He reached his destination, however,
without adventure, and remained for some time at the invalid's bedside.
His return journey was destined to be more eventful. He had not
proceeded far on his way back to Great Wabbleton, when a showily-dressed
woman, who was passing him on the road, stopped short and regarded him
with a prolonged and half-puzzled stare that ended in a sudden cry of
amazed recognition. "Well--I'm blest--it's Tommy!"
[Illustration: "IT'S TOMMY!"]
She was a buxom, and by no means unattractive, person of about
five-and-thirty, with an irresistibly "horsey" suggestion about her
appearance and gait. As the curate's eye met hers, he turned deadly
pale, and his knees trembled beneath him. That which he had dreaded for
days and nights had come to pass.
"Well, I'm blest!" said the lady again, "who'd have thought of meeting
you here after all these years--and in this make-up, too! But I should
have known you among a thousand, all the same. Why, Tommy, you don't
mean to say they've gone and made a parson of you?"
The curate was desperate. His first impulse was to deny all knowledge of
the woman who stood gazing into his face with a comical expression of
mingled amusement and surprise. But her next words showed him the
hopelessness of such a course.
"You're not going to say you don't know me, Tommy, though it _is_ nigh
twenty years since we were in the ring together, and you've got into a
black coat and a dog-collar. Fancy them making a parson of you; Lord,
who'd have thought it! Well, I've had a leg-up, too, since then. I'm
Madame Benotti now. The old lady died, and he made me missus of himself
and the show. He often talks about you, and wouldn't he stare, just, to
see you in this rig-out!"
By the time, the Rev. Thomas Todd had recovered himself sufficiently to
speak, and had decided that a bold course was the safest.
"I'm really glad to see you again," he said, with a shuddering thought
of the fate of Ananias; "it reminds me so of the old times. But, you
see, things are changed with me. You remember the old gentleman who
adopted me, and took me away from the circus? Well, he sent me to school
and college, and then set his heart on my becoming, as you say, a
parson. I haven't forgotten the old days, but--but you see, if the
people round here knew about my having been----"
"Lor' bless you, Tommy," broke in the good-natured _equestrienne_, "you
don't think I'd be so mean as to go and queer an old pal's pitch; you've
nothing to fear from me; don't be afraid, there's nobody coming"--for
the curate was looking distractedly round. "Well, I'm mighty glad to
have seen you again, even in this get-up, but I won't stop and talk to
you any longer, or one of your flock might come round the corner, and
then--O my! wouldn't there be a rumpus? Ha, ha, ha!"
She laughed loudly, and the clergyman looked round again in an agony.
"Now, Tommy, good-bye to you, and good luck. But look here, before you
go, just for the sake of the old times, when you were 'little Sandy,'
and I used to do the bare-backed business, you'll give us a kiss, won't
you, old man?"
And before the unhappy curate could prevent her, Madame Benotti had
flung her muscular arms round his neck, and imprinted two sounding
kisses on his cheeks.
At that fatal moment, a female figure came round the bend of the road,
and, to his indescribable horror, the curate recognised the dread form
of the Vicar's daughter. She had seen all--of that there could be no
doubt, but she came on, passed them, and continued on her way to Grubley
without the smallest sign of recognition.
"My goodness, Tommy, I hope that old cat wasn't one of your flock,"
remarked Madame Benotti, with real concern, as soon as she had passed.
"You look as scared as if you had seen a ghost; I hope I haven't----"
But the curate waited to hear no more. With a hurried "Good-bye" he tore
himself away, and made his way back to his apartments in a state
bordering on desperation.
[Illustration: "FLUNG HER MUSCULAR ARMS ROUND HIS NECK."]
Locking himself in, he paced the room for some time, groaning aloud in a
perfect frenzy of misery and apprehension. Then he flung himself into
his chair, buried his face in his hands, and tried to think what was
best to be done. After painful and intense thought, he decided that
there was nothing for it but to tell Miss Cope the whole story, and
appeal to her honour to keep it to herself. But how if she chose to
revenge herself upon him by refusing to believe the story, or by
declining to keep it secret? He could not conceal from himself that
either of these results was more than possible. In that case, there
remained only one resource; and it was of so terrible a nature that the
curate positively shuddered at its contemplation. But it might even come
to that; and better even _that_, he told himself, than the exposure, the
ridicule, and the professional ruin that must otherwise befall him.
Hour after hour passed, and he was still nerving himself for the coming
interview, when a tap came at the door, and a note, left by hand, was
brought in to him. He glanced at the address, and tore open the envelope
with trembling hand. It contained these few words, without any sort of
preliminary:--
"I think it right to give you warning that I shall take the
earliest opportunity of making known your disgraceful conduct
witnessed by me in the public streets this morning.
"CAROLINE COPE."
The Rev. Thomas Todd placed the letter in his pocket with an air of
desperate resolve, and started forth for the Vicarage without another
moment's delay. It was now or never--if he hesitated, even for an hour,
he might be irretrievably lost.
[Illustration: "MISS COPE WAS ENGAGED."]
The first answer brought to him by the servant who opened the Vicarage
door was not encouraging. "Miss Cope was engaged, and could not see Mr.
Todd." But the curate dared not allow himself to be put off so easily.
"Tell Miss Cope I _must_ see her on business of the most serious
importance," he said; and the message was duly carried to the Vicar's
daughter. That lady, after a moment's hesitation, felt herself unable
any longer to resist enjoying a foretaste of her coming triumph, and
ordered Mr. Todd to be admitted.
The interview that followed confirmed the curate's worst fears. He told
Miss Cope the whole story, and she flatly refused to believe a word of
it. He begged her to go herself to the circus proprietor and his wife
for proof of its truth, and she simply laughed in his face. He appealed
to her honour to keep the story secret, and she coldly reminded him of
the duty that devolved upon her, in her father's absence, of protecting
the morals of his congregation.
Then at last, beaten and baffled at all points, the unhappy curate
played his final card. He offered the Vicar's daughter the best possible
evidence of his sincerity by asking her to become his wife. The effect
was magical. It was the first chance of a husband that had ever come to
Caroline in her thirty-nine years of life, and she had an inward
conviction that it would be the last. The secret she had just learnt was
known to no one in the parish but herself, and so, after a brief
pretence of further parley to save appearances, she jumped at the offer,
and the curate left the Vicarage an engaged man. His last desperate
throw had succeeded. He had saved his position and his reputation; but
at what a cost he dared not even think.
[Illustration: "SOMETHING VERY SERIOUSLY WRONG."]
Within the next day or two, it became evident to all whom he met that
there was something very seriously wrong with the Rev. Thomas Todd. His
manner became first morose and abstracted, and then wild and eccentric.
He was seen very little in the town, and when he did appear, his haggard
face, his strange, absent air, and the unmistakable evidences of the
profound depression that possessed him, were the objects of general
remark. Some of the more charitable expressed a confident opinion that
the curate had committed a crime; others decided, with more penetration,
that he was going mad. From Miss Cope he kept carefully aloof. It had
been arranged at that fatal interview that their engagement should be
kept secret until the return of the Vicar, whose sanction must be
obtained before the affair could be made public. Miss Cope was aware
that the curate had two sermons to prepare in addition to his parish
duties--for he would have to preach twice on Sunday owing to her
father's absence; so she did not allow his non-appearance at the
Vicarage on Friday or Saturday to greatly surprise her.
If she could have seen the way in which the preparation of those sermons
was proceeding, she might have found more cause for anxiety. Shut up in
his room with some sheets of blank paper before him, the curate sat for
hours together, staring vacantly at the wall before him, and
occasionally giving vent to a loud, strange laugh. The evening of
Saturday passed into night, and still he sat on, looking before him
into the darkness with the same vacant stare, and uttering from time to
time the same wild, hoarse chuckle.
[Illustration: "THE REV. THOMAS TODD WAS STANDING ON HIS HEAD."]
The light of Sunday morning, streaming into the room, fell upon a weird,
dishevelled figure, that still stared fixedly at the wall, and every now
and then muttered strange and wholly unclerical words and phrases. Still
the hours wore on, until the sun rose high in the heavens, and the bells
began to ring for church. Then came a knock at the curate's door. His
landlady, surprised by his neglect of the breakfast hour, had been
positively alarmed when he showed no sign of heeding the approach of
church time. The knock was repeated; and then the clergyman sprang to
his feet and unlocked the door.
"Wait a moment," he cried, with a wild laugh. "_Now_ come in!"
The landlady put her head in at the door, and uttered a shriek of horror
and amazement. The Rev. Thomas Todd was standing on his head in the
middle of the hearthrug.
"God bless us and save us--the poor gentleman's gone clean out of his
wits!"
The curate's only reply was a shrill whoop, followed by an agile leap
into an upright position, and a wild grab at the terrified lady, whose
thirteen stone of solid matronhood he whirled round his head and tossed
across the room as if it had been a feather-weight. Then, hatless and
unkempt, he tore down stairs into the street, and started at a furious
pace in the direction of S. Athanasius.
It was three minutes to eleven, and the last stroke of the clanky
church-bell had just died away in a series of unmusical vibrations. The
townspeople, in all the added importance of Sunday clothes, gathered in
an ever-thickening knot about the gates, greeting one another before
they passed on into the church. At that moment, there floated towards
them on the breeze a sudden, sharp shout that rooted them to the spot in
positive consternation.
[Illustration: "SCATTERED THEM RIGHT AND LEFT."]
"Houp-la! Houp-la! Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!" And in another instant the
unfortunate curate, tearing down the road, had flung himself among them
and scattered them right and left by a series of vigorous and
splendidly-executed somersaults. With a well-directed leap, and a wild
cry of "Here we are again!" he vaulted lightly over the church gate, and
began to run up the path towards the door, until, at last, the horrified
onlookers awoke to the realities of the situation and half-a-dozen
sturdy townsmen rushed upon and seized the unhappy man. Then a woman's
piercing scream was heard, and the Vicar's daughter, who had just
arrived on the scene, fell fainting to the ground.
There was no service at S. Athanasius that morning, and the Rev. Thomas
Todd was later on conveyed, still shouting fragments of circus dialogue,
to the County Lunatic Asylum. The curate's mind had temporarily given
way beneath the strain of the position in which he had found himself
placed, and of the horrible future that lay before him, and his insanity
had taken the form of an imaginary return to the scenes of his early
life. When, some two years later, he was discharged cured, he attached
himself to a mission about to start for the South African Coast, and
left England without re-visiting Great Wabbleton.
Long afterwards, Miss Caroline Cope, in a burst of confidence, one day
related to her special friend, Miss Lavinia Murby, the doctor's
daughter, how the Rev. Thomas Todd had proposed to her a few days before
his melancholy seizure.
"Ah, my dear, you see he couldn't have been right, even then," was that
lady's sympathetic comment.
[Illustration: "'HE COULDN'T HAVE BEEN RIGHT, EVEN THEN.'"]
_People I Have Never Met._